


Pretty Boy (and his pretty badge)

by royalruse



Category: Chicago PD (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalruse/pseuds/royalruse
Summary: When the kidnapping of a Chicago Police Officer leads the Intelligence Unit to Anastasia Markov, Hank Voight uses his special method of persuasion to convince her to talk.(Or, Anya meets the Intelligence Unit and decides they need a bit more flavor in their life.)Post-Erin
Relationships: Jay Halstead & Original Female Character(s), Jay Halstead/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 27





	1. Davey's Pub

Walking back from the lab, she curses. A cloudy Chicago night in March is sure to be freezing, and having moved here a few months ago, she knows that. But did that stop her from making the mistake of only wearing a single, thin coat in the dead of night? No, it did not. 

Shivering, she hastens her pace. The cold wind nips at her cheeks, but she doesn't let that deter her. If she doesn't hurry, she’ll be late for her shift at the bar—not an impression she wants to make so soon after starting. 

She shoves her hands into her (lacking) jacket pockets and sighs, watching as her breath comes out like smoke against the Chicago streetlights. 

The city is beautiful as much as it is dangerous. Especially at night. 

From a distance, the city has a hazy glow of light and energy. When taking a closer look into the cracks and crevices, you learn that Chicago is as much as its attractions as it is its crime. 

Though, that doesn't bother her much. 

She approaches the bar, avoiding a few stray pieces of trash and bypassing a dumpster to get to the backdoor. She winces as her now warmed fingers come into contact with the cold metal bar of the door but pulls it back, nonetheless. It swings open, and she is greeted by a gust of warm air as she steps inside. 

Never let it be said that she doesn't appreciate this small dingy bar that smells of cigar smoke and Jager. 

She lets out a breath and shakes off her hat and coat. 

“Anya,” her manager greets her kindly as she hangs up her belongings behind the bar. She responds in kind. Henry Porter is an unassuming yet amiable man from Michigan, not entirely common here in Chicago. However, there is a reason he manages the bar most nights of the week: the man has balls of steel. In an area where more than one gang frequents, meaning tensions are high, Henry stays polite even when their ire is turned toward him. Instead of getting angry, he lets the kind bouncers throw the gentlemen (and a few hookers) out of the bar. “Glad you made it in one piece.” 

Anya huffs good-naturedly. He also likes to scare her with what she calls _Chicago horror stories_ to bully her into driving to work instead of going on foot. 

They haven’t been very effective as the walk here is only ten minutes, and she’d rather not waste the gas. “Me too, my friend. And, as a bonus, I still have my liver.”

Henry smiles, shaking his head as he walks by. She is sure he’ll have one more story to share by the end of the night, only to offer her a ride home. “Glad to hear it. You’ll be out front alone today—Megan called in sick. If you need anything, Joe’s in the back.”

Anya nods, sliding in behind the bar. So it is business as usual, then. Megan has a habit of calling in at the last minute, claiming she can't make her shift. And that is if they are lucky. Sometimes, she disappears for days at a time before coming in like she hadn’t even left. However, she is the owner’s niece, so no one can complain. 

The night turned out to be a slow night, to her convenience. Not too many people out drinking on a Thursday night. The only ones here look to be so for business. Which could be better or worse, depending on how it is looked at. 

Davey's Pub is famously known in these parts for being neutral territory. That meant, there is no one gang affiliation, as the bar is located at, what she likes to call, a gang intersection. There are four separate gangs surrounding the area, and Davey’s is smack in the middle. 

The owner, an older man from the Netherlands, doesn’t mind the crime-ridden neighborhood but also doesn’t allow any violence in his bar. At first, the gangs obviously attempted to gain control of the establishment, but after some wear and tear and twelve bloodied gangbangers, the gangs came into agreement and Davey’s Pub became off-limits. 

This also meant it became the perfect spot for any less than legal business transactions, especially if neither party trusted the other and needed the neutral territory. 

It was boring talk, most of the time, though: about prices, meetings and whatnot. And though she knew to keep most of what she heard to herself, no real sensitive information was spoken about in the bar. Any profession knew to keep information that they did not want to be known, private; or so she assumed. 

* * *

It was around closing when two Hispanic men came into the bar. They seemed tense, wound-up. Two of the four gangs in the area were of Latin affiliation, so it was a common sight. When she approached them, however, they seemed nervous and jumpy, sweat shining under the lights of the bar. 

“What can I get you, boys?”  
  


It came as no surprise to her when they ordered hard liquor—something to take the edge of, she guessed. Their whispers to one another were loud, and they didn’t seem to notice her standing near, wiping down a glass and refilling their drinks. 

What they were discussing, however, made her raise a brow. 

_“She’s_ —— _police officer!”_

_“We’re fine_ — _won’t find her.”_

She blinked and turned, wiping down another counter. She had to be honest, those two weren’t the brightest bulbs in the box. 

* * *

As it turned out, those two Latin thugs brought bad luck. 

The bar is full of their daytime regulars, drinking to warm themselves against the Chicago weather. She had to learn to juggle daytime and nighttime shifts, especially when certain employees decide not to come in, so she is, once again, behind the bar alone. 

Though, daytime does tend to be more evenly paced. 

Anya looks up as two men enter the bar. They appear to do a brief scan of the interior before approaching the counter. They have an almost tense, ready-like energy about them, though it is somewhat inconspicuous. Her suspicions of their intentions, however, are confirmed when they speak. “Good evening, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

The older man with a beanie covering scraggly, curly hair comes closer and takes out a badge, placing it on the bar. Just her luck, it seemed. “Chicago PD. Are you Anastasia Markov?” 

She studies the badge and sighs. What do they want with her?

When she doesn’t answer right away, his partner steps closer, the badge clipped to his belt flashing in the bar light. His posture is much more straight, positioned, than his older counterpart, young features set on an austere face and short combed hair laying cleanly on his head. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, I am Anastasia Markov. Is there something I can help you with, officers?” Her eyes drift toward Joe who is in the back kitchen. He gives her a concerned look, but she shakes her head. 

The first officer speaks. “Detective Olinsky, and this is Detective Halstead. We wanted to talk to you about two men who were in the bar last night.” 

She raises a brow, busying herself with putting away a few liquor bottles. “You’ll have to be a smidge more specific, detectives. Many men come through this bar.” 

Detective Halstead comes closer and slides a photo of two men onto the counter, pale eyes looking from the photo to her. “Remember them?”

Ah, the two idiots. “As a matter of fact, I do. They came into the bar around closing, wanted some liquor but left soon after.”

The detective doesn’t say anything, looking at her with an expectant expression. She says nothing, confused. Detective Olinsky drops another photo on the table—it was from the surveillance camera: her standing near the two Hispanic men as they were distracted in a heated conversation. 

“Can you tell me what they were talking about?”

She takes a moment to think before giving them an apologetic frown. “Sorry, detectives. So many come through here, I tend to zone out of conversations.” She waves her hand in a dismissing manner. “You can only listen to so many discussions about taxes and the second amendment before they all start to sound the same.”

They don’t look convinced. Detective Halstead steps closer, leaning in. “Well, witnesses and the security footage put you next to the two men from the _Latin Kings_ while they were here, so whatever they were talking about, there is a good chance you heard something.” 

The Latin Kings were no amateurs, so she assumed this error was made by a few underlings gone astray. 

Anya raised a brow, leaning her arms on the bar as she neared the _pretty_ detective. With those features (soft clear skin, baby blue eyes), she doesn’t mind that he is police coming to question her. “Sorry, pretty boy. Like I said, after a few hours of chatter, things become somewhat of a blur.” She sorts the images into a stack and pushes them back over toward the two detectives. “Maybe your _witnesses_ can help you with that. Now, if there's nothing else, can I get you boys a drink?"


	2. Nice to meet you too, Sergeant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya meets the illustrious Hank Voight, and he is not very welcoming (at first).

The two detectives left soon after realizing that she wasn’t going to talk, leaving behind a business card and instructions to call if she remembers anything. 

Shame to see that handsome detective go, she mused. 

After closing up the bar, Anya double-checked she had all her belongings and the alarm was set before heading toward the back door. Joe had to head out a little early to pick up his wife from her shift at the hospital, but she reassured him that she wouldn’t suddenly drop dead at his leave. Usually, he liked to walk her to the bus or give her a ride since he adamantly refused to allow her to go home on foot alone, no matter her protest. 

She swung her bag over her shoulder and pushed the door open, shivering as Chicago wind met her person, whipping her hair against her face. She stepped out into the chilled air and let the door shut behind her. After ensuring it was locked, she rummaged through her bag for her phone, intending to send Henry and Joe (those worrywarts) a message that she was fine and that the bar was sealed for the night. 

She didn't have much experience with being taken care of or looked after, so while she was uncomfortable with their concern at first, she found that it wasn't unpleasant. Once in a while, fussing wasn't a bad thing, she thought warmly. 

Before she could find the device in the blackhole she called a bag, a gruff, almost hoarse voice spoke. “Anastasia Markov?”

She spun around, startled to see a man standing a few meters away, hands fixed in his jacket pockets. Well, she sure was popular today. He had on a beanie but most of his face was obscured by the overhead lights casting a shadow over him. It was somewhat ominous. 

She stepped closer, breathing calm though her heart jumped. “And who would like to know?”

The man didn’t move, though she could now see solid, hard eyes on an unreadable face. He appeared to be of a similar age to the Detective Olinsky she met earlier that day. “Sergeant Hank Voight. CPD.”

She couldn’t say that she was entirely surprised, as unexpected as his visit was. Seeing as she had met two detectives earlier, and they were alone in a dark, back alley, she assumed this was not just a social visit. “I see. You wouldn't happen to be the Sergeant of the two detectives I met earlier, would you?”

He was silent, neither confirming nor denying. She took it as an affirmation, nonetheless. 

She had to admit, the man’s less than friendly disposition did not put her at ease, but being at ease in Chicago was rare, anyway. From when she learned how to walk and talk, she was taught to always be on her guard. Chicago, New York, it was all the same neighborhood. 

When he came closer, expression unchanged, she decided it would be futile to try and avoid this conversation. If he was going to the lengths of cornering her alone after work, she wouldn’t put it past the CPD to order patrol or squad cars to follow her as she goes about her business. And frankly, not that she disliked the blues, she’d rather not be subject to their incessant stalking. “I see. Is there anything I can do for you, Sergeant?”

Because she couldn’t foresee this conversation going any better than the last. 

He came to a stop in front of her, his brows almost naturally furrowed, wrinkles on his forehead, and his mouth slightly open as if to say something. “The Latin Kings. Tell me what they’re planning.”

She sighed, giving him a sideways glance, slightly wary. While she cared little for her patrons’ right to privacy (though she never found disclosing information worth the effort), being involved in police matters wasn’t exactly ideal for her. If she could avoid it, she would. “As I mentioned to your other two detectives, after some time—”

She grunted, surprised, as a hand roughly grabbed the front of her jacket, forcibly shoving her against the back of a building. Her hand shot up to latch onto his on instinct, looking up to meet his unflinching stare. “Cut the crap, Markov. I know you said you didn’t hear anything, and we both know you are lying.” He leaned closer, threateningly, breath hitting her face. “You’re going to tell me everything those two said when they came into your bar, or I’ll be digging a hole for you, not them.” 

She stared into his heavy gaze, a small swallow the only outward reaction of being affected by his words. She should probably tread carefully, if only for her own self-preservation. “As much as I’d love to help you out—”

The sting of a slap took her by surprise, causing her to pause, blinking. 

While his expression was inscrutable, she could see the danger and promise of violence in his eyes. “I said, don’t give me crap.” His grip on her tightened, and there was a finger raised in front of her face. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know in the next twenty seconds, you’ll be kissing the bottom of the harbor.” 

Unlucky for him (mostly her), however, she took that as a challenge. 

She raised a brow, licking her dry lips. “Is that so? What a pity, I can’t swim very well.” At his glower, she felt an old spark of excitement that she hadn’t felt in _ages._ He wanted information, she wasn’t sure she was inclined to give it to him. He’d have to be a lot more persuasive than that. 

She only had seconds to see his eyes narrow before he was moving again, though this time she was ready. She moved closer as his hand pulled back, offsetting his balance and slamming a sharp elbow into his side. He grunted in pain, muscles contracting, and quickly retaliated. 

Her head slammed into the wall, body following not even a second later, head turned so her only view was an old and stained dumpster. Horrid thing, it was. She was dazed for only a second, blinking and shaking off the hit before giving a harsh kick back, connecting with the Sergeant’s shin and having him release his hold. 

She quickly followed the kick with a swift left-hook, not giving him time to recover, but the Sergeant was more agile than she initially gave him credit, moving with the punch and doling out his own heavy blow to her side, her breath leaving her body as she hunched over. Right in the solar plexus, she winced, breathless. 

Not allowing her to breathe, he grabbed her by the lapels of her jacket once more, slamming her with a heavy weight against the building, her head bouncing off the wall with a dull yet sharp thud. They stopped, both slightly winded, she more so than him. 

It all happened in a matter of a minute. 

After a few seconds of processing what had just taken place, she couldn’t help but let out a surprised but delighted laugh. She ached but her heart pounded, alive. 

Blood was dripping down her cheek from a cut on her forehead (no doubt from being slammed against a wall multiple times), but she smiled at the suspicious and unrepentant Sergeant. “Very well, Sergeant. I’ll tell you what I heard.”

He was such delightful company, after all. 

* * *

Sergeant Hank Voight left Davey’s Pub half an hour later, having already called Al to relay what he learned. The kidnappers from the bar must have been confident to talk about where they were keeping a Chicago police officer out in the open. 

Officer Diaz would be home in an hour. 

He let out a sigh, swiping a hand across his face. Thinking back to the flash of brown hair and cheeky smile, he had to contend that Anastasia Markov was an odd woman. He didn’t expect her violent resistance, though it didn’t hinder him much. Her willingness to relay information to him after their rumble did surprise him, though. 

She was nothing if gleeful after that spat and even offered him a drink—which he graciously accepted (though may have been slightly dubious). 

Her information checked out, though, and had been detailed. The two thugs from the Latin Kings had taken their officer to an abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of the city and were planning on killing her: something about payback for having their little brother arrested. These types of encounters rarely ended so well, so the change of pace wasn’t unwelcome. 

Though her initial reluctance to talk pushed his patience (especially since it involved someone from the 21st), in the end, he begrudgingly had to respect her for standing her ground as well as her restraint. 

She did have a gun on her the entire time, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all doing well! Stay safe & healthy :)


End file.
